Tesco Poem

You rape our farmers year-by-year,
Or move your trade abroad.
You brainwash folk who think that you
Are all they can afford.
The peasants of this mining town
All come to you for food.
Some clod poles even worship you,
You brighten up their mood.
They travel in their cars to you
Polluting Britain’s air,
Whilst you bring goods from overseas,
Your trade is rarely fair.
For Costa Ricans picking fruit
Can work for two days straight.
Their fruit will keep your stomach full
So you can stay up late.
You steal cashews from India,
You leave their women scarred.
But still our sheep all flock to you,
Although your name’s been marred.
In Bangladesh your women work
For just five pence an hour,
They make the clothes you sell so cheap
Next to your eggs and flour.
With such a wide variety
Our small shops can’t compete;
With baker’s baking cakes all day
That no one wants to eat.
The milkman potters ‘round the streets
Delivering here and there,
But not enough to make ends meet,
And no one seems to care.
So every time their moth-like wings
Are heading t’wards your light,
Like zombies with a thirst for blood,
They help you win the fight.